


Opposites Attract

by libraryv



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Case Fic, F/M, Robin is hired to solve a case, Robin is the detective, Romance, Sexual Tension, Strike is an (in)famous rich socialite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Cormoran Strike is the slightly arrogant, very wealthy, eldest son of Jonny Rokeby. On a night out, his youngest brother Al gets into trouble, and Strike puts the services of R V Ellacott, PI, to the test. They don't like each other much, at first, but have to work together to clear Al's name. Of course, that's not all that happens...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 65
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW for gunshots in a club/Strike dealing with his brother's gunshot wounds.

“I haven’t told you yet.” The model currently lounging against him was snaking her long-nailed fingers underneath his collar.

Strike looked down at her, enjoying the game.

“Haven’t told me what?”

His arm around her shoulders dropped to her waist, and he pulled her closer. One or two inches more and she’d be on his lap.

Almost.

He smiled, and she licked her lips, leaning forward and whispering into his ear. 

“My New Year’s resolution.”

His hand at her waist began to stroke softly, lowering onto her hip.

“What’s your New Year’s resolution?”

She licked the ridge of his ear.

“I’m determined to find out whether the rumours about the famous Cormoran Strike are true.”

He drew back slightly, grinning at her. 

“Which ones?”

She tossed her head back, blonde hair catching the dancing lights of the club’s dark interior. Her fingers found his lap.

“Let’s just say I’m curious about the ones relating to what’s beneath the belt.”

It was his turn to lean forward. He kissed her softly, and she opened her lips to him. He felt her moan, and he pulled back.

“I can help you find out.”

The sound of a familiar voice reached his ears; it was a voice raised in anger. Strike could hear his brother Al shouting, the sound of it high and livid over the thudding of the music. 

“I don’t care if you don’t like it! You fucking deal with it!”

_Fuck._

Al was easygoing, but this was not Strike’s first night out with his youngest brother. Drinking often gave Al a fiery temper.

Strike got to his feet, and his date pouted. 

Gunfire cracked sharply into the night, startling the other people in the lounge.

“Was that-?”

Strike was on his feet, pushing his way forward.

“Al!” Strike was shoving his way through the crowd, fighting against a sinking feeling and his own ungainly balance.

His fucking leg- 

He reached the border of the crowd just in time to see Al’s lean form crumple to the floor, alongside another body that was ominously still.

Kitty, Al’s girlfriend, was sobbing, hands over her mouth. Panic was rippling slowly through the club, most of which was still a heaving collection of dancing bodies.

“What happened? What the fuck happened?” Strike landed heavily with a bang on one knee, his bad leg bent awkwardly behind him. He’d never get up without help, but that wasn’t what he cared about now. 

One of Al’s mates, Simon, was kneeling at Al’s other side, spluttering gibberish, hands twisting anxiously in front of him.

“Al said he had to go talk to someone, and left, and we didn’t see anything, but we heard him yelling, and then the gunshots-“

“Jesus Christ. Fucking Christ.” Strike’s big hands were steady as they tore open Al’s shirt. Strike pressed his large palm firmly down onto his brother’s chest, fighting a hysterical desire to scream. He settled for shouting at the crowd of club-goers gathered around. 

“Call a fucking ambulance!” he bellowed at the nearest pair of legs, and Simon held out his mobile. 

“I’m on the phone with them, I’ve called, I’ve called!”

People were screaming, and glittering heels and Italian loafers mixed with expensive trainers as bodies thundered towards the exits. The DJ hadn’t stopped the music, and a booming bass line still pulsed at the edges of the chaos. Strike reared back, shaking off his blazer, bundling it up and pressing it desperately back to Al's chest.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Kitty was sobbing, her voice rising, clutching at Strike’s arm, and somebody pulled her off of him. 

He was seconds away from losing control himself. Al’s blood felt horribly warm and slick on his fingers, but Strike wasn’t looking at his brother’s chest, he was watching his brother’s face. 

The colour had left it, and Al’s eyes flickered open. 

“Corm,” his lips formed the word on a half-breath.

Strike tried for a reassuring smile, but he could feel his own lips trembling.

“They’re on their way, they’re coming.” 

He pressed the blood-soaked jacket harder against Al’s chest, making determined eye contact. 

“Al. Help is on the way. Just stay with me.” 

Strike felt Al’s chest rise and fall imperceptibly beneath his hands, and his eyelids fluttered closed.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“This had better be worth the trek to fucking Soho.” 

Strike watched as Shanker glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. 

“This PI’s the absolute best, Bunsen. No case unsolved, like. When I made the appointment, I was impressed.” He scratched his chin. “An’ they gave me biscuits.”

Strike pinched the bridge of his nose, then shook out his watch from beneath his jacket. 

The drive had taken over forty minutes, and his leg was beginning to protest the stationary prison of the car. He stretched his arms in front of him. 

As if in answer to his thoughts, Shanker pulled the sleek Mercedes up to the curb. They were on Denmark Street, among a nondescript row of shabby music shops.

“‘Ere we are, boss. Upstairs flat above the green door.”

Strike looked out the window doubtfully.

“Not much, is it?”

Shanker chuckled.

“The bloody best, Bunsen.” 

Strike sighed and unfolded himself from the seat, opening the door and stepping out onto the pavement. He walked casually to the green door, passing a woman who did a slight double-take. Tossing her a grin, he pushed the door open and went inside, taking off his sunglasses and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

Stairs. Of course.

He began to climb, grateful for his physical therapist’s insistence that he do his exercises. He passed no one, and the building was quiet.

He reached the door with a name etched onto the glass. It matched the one Shanker had given him. 

_R. V. Ellacott, Private Investigator_

__Strike ducked his head slightly, and strode into the office._ _

__The secretary looked up from the computer, standing and bustling towards him._ _

__“Mr. Strike! I know who you are.”_ _

__The youth tucked his shoulder length hair behind an ear, and blushed furiously._ _

__“You can go on through to the office.”_ _

__Strike walked down the tiny hallway, and pushed open what he figured must be the office door. He stopped in his tracks and looked around the small, pleasant space._ _

__A snug bookshelf stood in the corner, packed to the brim with a wild assortment of colourful spines. Small plants dotted the windowsill; spots of verdant, cheerful green. An oversized, well-used armchair was tucked in another corner, currently home to a small black cat, who raised its head and blinked green eyes at him. The air smelled slightly of peppermint, which was due, no doubt, to the stout teapot on the large desk in the centre of the room. A young woman was seated there, watching his reaction._ _

__When he turned to her, she rose and came around, extending a hand. Her age was another surprise; early thirties at most._ _

__“Hello. I’m Robin Ellacott.”_ _

__The hand currently shaking his was surprisingly firm. Strike was momentarily distracted by the whole situation; couldn’t Shanker have bloody warned him that this PI looked more like a florist than a cutthroat detective? Red-gold hair framed an attractive face, and blue-grey eyes assessed him with something close to amusement: she was relishing his surprise._ _

__Strike rallied, and cleared his throat. He knew how to handle an attractive woman, for fuck’s sake. He looked down into those laughing blue-grey eyes and treated her to his trademark grin._ _

__Unruffled, she dropped his hand and motioned for him to sit down, which they both did. She leaned back in her chair, and looked at him expectantly._ _

__“Miss Ellacott. I’m Cormoran Strike.“_ _

__She nodded, and he realized, that of course, she would know the name when Shanker made the appointment. It needled him; everyone could just look his life up in the papers, from his name to his favourite way to eat eggs._ _

__“Well,” he said shortly, “you probably already know all about me.”_ _

__She merely raised her eyebrows._ _

__He smiled ruefully._ _

__“I’ve got a reputation, or haven’t you heard?”_ _

__Miss Ellacott reached for her tea._ _

__“I have my own reputation, Mr. Strike.”_ _

__She took a sip, smiling._ _

__“Somewhat different from your own.”_ _

__That calm smile was getting to him. He ran a hand down his jaw._ _

__“Well, I only have your word for that.”_ _

__She put down her tea._ _

__“My work speaks for itself.”_ _

__He shrugged, more out of wanting to get a rise out of her than any true doubt of her skill, and was pleased to see her cheeks flush._ _

__He glanced around her office again. What in the hell was he doing? This woman – with her tea and potted plants and cozy office – this couldn’t be what he was looking for. The cat yawned at him, and curled back into a ball._ _

__“You’re looking to clear your brother’s name.”_ _

__He swung his gaze back to her._ _

__“I follow the news, Mr. Strike. Your brother’s case is making headlines.”_ _

___Did she think Al was innocent? ____ _

____“Then you’ll know everyone thinks he’s responsible.”_ _ _ _

____The blue-grey eyes remained impassive._ _ _ _

____Curiosity got the better of him._ _ _ _

____“What do you think?”_ _ _ _

____She gave him a knowing look._ _ _ _

____“I think that things are not always as they appear.”_ _ _ _

____He grinned. She was clever._ _ _ _

____“Meaning you and this office. Look, Miss Ellacott – I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. I admit, you’re not exactly what I expected.”_ _ _ _

____She raised her eyebrows._ _ _ _

____“I never am.”_ _ _ _

____“You come recommended from people I trust, and you do have a good reputation. ”_ _ _ _

____She gazed at him levelly._ _ _ _

____“One that’s well-earned.”_ _ _ _

____“I’m sure it is. Honestly, all I care about is whether or not you can prove my brother’s innocence. Are you as good as they say?”_ _ _ _

____Miss Ellacott leaned forward and smiled._ _ _ _

____“Better.”_ _ _ _

____He held her gaze, then nodded, holding out his hand once more._ _ _ _

_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _

____ _ _

____“Cormoran Strike? _The_ Cormoran Strike? As in, Johnny Rokeby’s extremely wealthy, extremely bad-boy son?”_ _ _ _

____“The very same.”_ _ _ _

____Robin smiled into her wine glass as Ilsa squealed._ _ _ _

____“Oh my god! What’s he _like_?” _ _ _ _

____“A prick, no doubt” supplied Nick, reaching to help himself to more palak paneer. Ilsa swatted his shoulder with her napkin._ _ _ _

____Robin grinned._ _ _ _

____“He’s – he’s not what I expected. He does have that famous confidence, he moves like he owns the room; very deliberately. If you didn’t know about his war injury then you wouldn’t necessarily notice. He’s quite fit, if a bit rougher-looking than I expected.”_ _ _ _

____Nick was shaking his head fondly at the both of them, but Ilsa was nodding her encouragement for more. Robin kept going; it was a bit of a relief to describe him out loud and give vent to her feelings. Cormoran Strike _was_ fit, and she had noticed._ _ _ _

____Not that she would ever give him the satisfaction of admitting it to his face._ _ _ _

____“Taller even than he looks in pictures. Expensive suit, but not showy. Nice watch, but not ridiculous. He’s a big man.” She looked at Ilsa and grinned._ _ _ _

____“And fine, yes, the famous green eyes are bloody gorgeous.”_ _ _ _

____Ilsa squealed again, and Nick snorted. Robin took another sip of wine, thinking._ _ _ _

____“I wasn’t what he expected either. The look on his face when he came into the office! And saw Piper sleeping on the chair! But he recovered.”_ _ _ _

____She looked back up at her friends._ _ _ _

____“There is something about him, once you get past the slight arrogance. Once _he_ got over his obvious surprise, he actually took me quite seriously – he has this way of really focusing in on you.” _ _ _ _

____Nick refilled her wine._ _ _ _

____“So are you taking the case?”_ _ _ _

____“Of course! It’s high-profile, it will do wonders for the business, it will pay well…”_ _ _ _

____Robin raised her eyebrows playfully._ _ _ _

____“And I think Cormoran Strike is right. I think his brother is innocent.”_ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin end up unexpectedly crossing paths, and this time it's Robin who gets a glimpse of his world.

“I told you already, Corm. We were fighting about some stupid money he owed me. The shots came out of nowhere.”

Strike studied his brother’s pale face, white against the blue of his hospital gown. There was nothing to suggest even a hint of a lie; Al’s expression was completely earnest. 

Strike sighed and looked out the window. The sun had finished its descent, and the sky-rises visible through the glass were caught in a grey twilight. His brother looked on the verge of tears, and Strike didn’t want to upset him. He rubbed his jaw, bone-tired.

“I believe you. We’ll sort it.”

Al didn’t look convinced, so Strike elaborated. 

“I’ve been in contact with someone.”

Comprehension dawned on Al’s face. 

“Shanker mentioned a private investigator?”

Strike nodded.

“I’ve told her that I’m hiring her.”

Al blinked. 

“Her? Shanker didn’t mention-I mean, not that-”

Strike thought of Robin Ellacott’s cozy office, with her snug bookshelf and blinking cat. Then he remembered her sharp assessment of him and her quick replies. 

He grinned at his brother. 

“She’s capable, believe me.”

Al returned the smile, an echo of his older brother’s dazzling one, then sank back into the pillows, watching as Strike scanned the collection of bouquets and balloons scattered about.

“Dad sent the giant bouquet of lilies.”

Strike checked the time on his watch. 

“Did he,” he said flatly.

Al gestured towards the giant, fragrant bouquet in question, a sly expression on his face. 

“And I’m pretty sure his new assistant has a thing for me.”

Strike rolled his eyes.

“Don’t go there, Al. Remember what happened to the last one.”

“Yeah, I do! _You_ pulled her, and-”

“And it didn’t end well for any of us. So keep it in your pants, and keep the peace, yeah?” Strike grinned and tossed a tiny stuffed elephant at Al, earning another smile from his younger brother as the nurse came in, announcing the end of visiting hours and shooing Strike from the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Strike unlocked his apartment door, weary to the bone. Despite Al’s joking, his brother had looked pale and weak.

His own experience with hospitals was not something he remembered with any fondness, and the evening’s visit had been fruitless and tiring. He put his shoes and coat neatly in the closet, then walked straight to the kitchen bar to pour himself a drink. He rummaged in the fridge and took out a trio of take-out containers, sighing heavily. His mobile buzzed. 

**Hi sexy. At The Cove. Meet me for drinks?**

_Emily._ He considered it for a moment: the pounding bass, the heady buzz, the distraction of a woman. The endless, meaningless conversation. It didn’t appeal. Not tonight. He shot back a quick reply. 

**Think I’ll skip tonight. I’ll call you this weekend. Have fun.**

Strike pocketed his phone, then grabbed a container and made his way to the group of armchairs tastefully arranged in front of a massive, modern fireplace. He took a listless swallow of noodles, and his mind replayed the night from the club with Al. 

Al was telling the truth, Strike would stake his life on it. So who had fired those shots? 

And why? Al was still a piece of the puzzle somehow, regardless of whether he was the one holding the gun or not. 

His pocket vibrated again. 

**Too bad. In the mood for a tall drink tonight. ;) xxx**

He snorted, shaking his head, then paced back to the bar and swallowed the last of his drink. He made his way to the bedroom, tossing the mobile onto the giant bed before beginning to undress.

_Bzzzzzz._

“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, shaking loose his blazer. As he began to undo his cuffs, he bent to look at the mobile screen.

It wasn’t Emily.

**Hi there. Have drawn up case paperwork as previously discussed. Ready to begin when you are.**

_Robin Ellacott._

He hesitated, then answered.

**Sounds good. Thanks.**

The phone lit up almost immediately.

**Currently in your neighbourhood. Can drop off case paperwork with one of your people, if convenient?**

He paused, standing frozen in place as the screen went dark again. He remembered Al’s wan, hopeless face, and made a split-second decision. He typed a quick reply before he could think too hard on whether this was a good idea.

**I’m at home. I’ll tell the night guard to let you up. Only door on the top floor.**

He waited a few moments, and saw her reply.

 **On my way.**

Strike turned and headed back out of the bedroom, going back to the kitchen and clearing the takeaway containers off the counter.

He cracked his neck. 

Fuck. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman here for anything _other_ than a fuck. 

No danger of that, with Robin Ellacott. Still, he didn’t usually invite people into his private life. Some instinct, though, told him that the private investigator could be trusted to be descreet.

The intercom sounded. He went over and answered.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Miss Ellacott to see you, Mr. Strike.”

“Yes, send her up, please.”

XXXXXXXX

Robin was trying very hard not to be impressed by the gleaming floors and soaring ceilings of Cormoran Strike’s building. Everything was sleek and modern and extremely tasteful. The nightman at the desk had been almost obscured by a fragrant, fresh bouquet.

She was shown into the lift, which was large enough to boast a plush bench running along one side, and examined herself in the mirror on the other. 

She sighed at her reflection. Her coat was almost soaked through with rain. Her hair was damp and frizzing slightly, and she had switched purses earlier; no brush. A memory of Strike in her office came to her; tall, sunglasses glinting, his wide and easy smile above his crisp collar. 

She wished she had thought this through: she was about to meet Jonny Rokeby’s playboy son at his flat, and she looked like a bedraggled cat. What would he think? Then she gave herself a mental shake. Nonsense. She had been in the area, and this was efficient. It saved him a trip to the office, it saved them both time. 

The lift dinged, and she emerged into a softly lit hallway with a lone door. She knocked, pasted on her best professional smile, and suddenly there he was, crisp collar and all, looking trendy and casual and ridiculously tall. And there was that rogue-ish smile in place, meant to charm and fluster.

“Miss Ellacott,” he said, managing to inject about thirty different tones of playful suggestion into the four syllables. 

Robin, to her horror, blushed. 

“I have the paperwork,” she said, a bit lamely. Charmed and flustered indeed.

“Come on in,” he said, stepping aside.

“I-” 

“You’re soaked. Please. Come in and dry off a bit.”

Robin hesitated all of a moment, then stepped forward into the flat.

He took her coat and she walked through: a spare hallway led into an enormous, open-plan kitchen and living room, all spare elegance against a stunning, floor-to-ceiling vista of the twinkling London skyline. 

“Drink?” Strike said from behind her as Robin stopped in her tracks, stunned. She found herself nodding, unable to take her eyes off the sparkling view.

“Ladies’ choice” he stated casually, indicating a backlit, gleaming array of bottles arranged along an island bartop. 

He rolled up his shirt sleeves to the elbows, revealing a set of strong forearms with an impressive amount of dark hair, and snagged two highball glasses from a cupboard, setting them in front of her.

“Er,” said Robin, at a loss. She had honestly planned on dropping off the files for him, then turning around and heading back home. Now, somehow, she was sitting at his bar.

How did this happen? Did the man just invite women into his flat all the time, effortlessly offering them drinks?

 _Yes. It’s Cormoran. Bloody. Strike,_ her brain supplied. He was looking at her, waiting politely. She cleared her throat.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said. He nodded and brought out a tall bottle, then turned around and grabbed two sugar cubes from a little bowl, followed by a quick dash of something from another bottle. He began to pour. 

“An Old Fashioned? Rather American, isn’t it?” she said teasingly, watching him add ice to their glasses.

He looked up, surprised.

She smiled, glad to have gained back her footing in the conversation. 

“I _am_ good at putting details together, Mr. Strike.”

He nodded, studying her, then pushed her glass across to her. She took a cautious sip. It was annoyingly good.

“Delicious,” she said, meaning it. 

He shrugged, pleased. “Not bad.” He took a graceful pull of his, then leaned forward, as if letting her in on a secret. 

“Truth be told, I prefer a pint of ale, hands down, any day. Currently out of it, though, and my reputation demands that I can’t let my very impressive and very manly bar go to waste.” 

_Was he kidding?_

He grinned. 

Which caused her to blush. 

_Ridiculous._ What on earth was wrong with her? 

“So I have your case file all drawn up,” she said, reaching for her bag like a lifeline. “The terms are all in there, the rates, the NDA, etc. I’ve marked where you need to sign.”

She pulled it out, the stack of pages reassuringly solid and plain. She placed them on the bartop, next to his glass. 

There was a moment of silence as they both looked at the papers. Then Robin looked at Strike, looking down at the papers, and noticed the deep shadows under his eyes. He was leaning rather heavily on the counter, and she could see the tension in the line of his neck and shoulders. 

The man was clearly exhausted.

Robin took another swallow of her drink, then stood up. 

“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had quite the long day, and I’ve been looking forward to a hot bath and my bed.”

He looked up, the weariness and gratefulness in his eyes disappearing into smooth confidence so quickly she wasn’t sure she had seen it.

She stepped down from the bar stool, combing her fingers through her hair. "Absolutely no rush, but I’ve already got some ideas as to where to start. I’ll be in touch.”

He nodded, his eyes on hers. 

“That sounds like a plan, Miss Ellacott.”

She gave him a confident smile and began to make her way back to the front door. He appeared a few moments later, leaning against the wall as she put on her shoes. She stood up straight, and he did as well, then opened a closet and retrieved her coat, handing it to her. 

“There’s a cab waiting out front for you, and it’s paid.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Strike, there’s no need for-”

“It’s already done.” He smiled, gently. “And it’s Cormoran.”

She felt a responding smile on her face, one that wasn’t just purely professional.

“Robin.”

“Right. Well, thanks for the paperwork.”

“And thanks for the drink. Your very manly reputation stays intact.” She finished tying the belt on her coat and pushed her bag over her shoulder, leaving through the door he held open, but not before she caught a last glimpse of his delighted grin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An inverse, wink-and-nod to a scene from _The Cuckoo's Calling._

Robin awoke to blissful, lemony sunlight filtering in through the window. She blinked, stretching luxuriously and disturbing Piper, who was curled up in a tight ball at the foot of the bed. She became slowly aware of the buzzer ringing and her mobile vibrating; she picked up her phone and saw a stream of missed texts.

_I’m here._

_Hello?_

_Been waiting for 10 mins._

_What the hell, Robin?_

Robin groaned. 

Matthew.

She had almost forgotten the plans she had made with him; in a heated phone conversation last week, they had agreed he would come pick up the last of his things. 

She hurriedly typed out a reply that she would be right down and scrambled to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and splashing water onto her face. She brushed her hair and put it into a loose ponytail. She almost tripped over Piper as she hopped into a pair of leggings, then opened her tiny closet and threw on a loose, floral tunic. 

She rushed down the stairs, cursing Matthew and his incessant ringing of the buzzer, and threw open the door to reveal her ex-fiance, his handsome face suffused with annoyance. 

“Morning!” she said brightly. 

“I’ve been standing out here, holding this box for fifteen minutes!”

She stood aside and he pushed past her, a tense silence between them as they made their way up the creaky stairs.

“Sorry about keeping you,” offered Robin, trying to keep things civil. “I was out late on a new case last night, and-”

“Oh, a _case_ ,” said Matthew, his tone cutting. “Of course, nothing is ever as important as a _case_.”

Robin swallowed a retort and smiled tightly. They had arrived on the landing of the office, and she held out the key to her flat.

“I’ll be in the office, out of your way. Your things are on the kitchen table.”

He fairly snatched the key out of her hand.

“You won’t even notice me.”

He went up the stairs, and Robin opened the door to her office, walking immediately to the small kitchen and filling the kettle for tea. Her assistant was at a dental appointment this morning, she remembered, and she didn’t have any clients until 10. This arrangement had seemed like an effortless thing to agree to, at the time, but now she wondered why on earth she hadn’t planned this for a morning when she was out. She could have left the key for him and avoided any kind of interaction.

She could hear Matthew stomping around above her, and knew it was intentional. 

She brought a mug back to her desk, turned on her computer, and buried her head in her hands, taking deep breaths.

Matthew stomped back down the stairs, walked into the front office, then stood sullenly in her doorway.

“Was I quiet enough? Didn’t interrupt your precious casework?” 

Robin held his gaze. 

“I said I was sorry for making you wait. There’s no need to make this more unpleasant.”

He rolled his eyes. 

“I knew it - how long until Saint Robin showed up with her sunny Ms. Maturity act?”

She stood. 

“Matt! Jesus.”

He smiled, a little smugly. 

“Ah, see? True colours coming out, now.”

Robin could feel the familiar anger rising to the surface.

“You call deliberate provocation of me, “true colours?” Do you have your things?”

“Can I leave, you mean?”

She looked at him, hard. 

“I’m not doing this with you again. If you have what you came for, you should go.”

They stood; a silent face-off, and Robin’s mobile vibrated on the desk. Matthew snorted. 

“Right. I’m always in the way.”

“That’s not what-”

“That’s _always_ fucking what.”

Robin, patience thin, threw her hands up in the air. 

“I can never bloody WIN with you! I never could!”

Matthew nodded madly, as if waiting for her to say that.

“If you had left your work long enough to come home once in awhile, maybe you would have had a chance-”

“I said I’m not doing this again, Matt! Leave!”

XXXXXXXXX

As Shanker drove, Strike looked out the car windows, absorbing the sights and sounds of Soho on a sunny morning. Construction was underway everywhere.

“Here we are, boss.” 

Shanker pulled up outside Robin Ellacott’s office, and Strike grabbed the paperwork from the seat next to him. 

“I won’t be long, Shanker. I think she’s busy. There was no answer when I called just now. I’ll probably just leave them with her assistant.”

“I’m in no hurry,” replied Shanker comfortably, settling into his seat. 

Strike pushed the door open and left the car. By a stroke of luck, he was let into the building by a couple of teenage boys already on their way in. 

He began walking up the stairs to Miss Ellacott’s office, but slowed down when he reached the landing; he could hear a row in full swing. 

“If you had left your work long enough to come home once in awhile, maybe you would have had a chance-”

“I said I’m not doing this again, Matt! Leave!”

“Right, kick me out and bury yourself in work and take comfort in being alone for the rest of your life, I’m fucking done with you, Robin!”

“I _know_ you are, that’s why we bloody ended things!”

Before Strike could move, heavy footsteps came his way and the door flew open. A young man dressed in a polo shirt and holding a box appeared on the landing, his features twisted in anger.

He glanced at Strike, did a double take, then pounded past him on the stairs. 

Strike stood, frozen for a moment. This was clearly none of his business, and not something he wanted to be involved in. Just as he had begun to take a step, the door swung open again. He leaned back to avoid it, and Robin Ellacott came flying out of it, right into his chest.

She cried out, and for a few dangerous seconds, they tumbled backward together. There was a moment where he thought they would go right over the edge of the stairs, but he dropped the paperwork and caught her hard by the arms, shielding her from the wall as they slammed into it. The knee of his bad leg gave a horrible wrench. 

“Fucking hell!” he swore, as her body slammed hard into his, her elbows stabbing into his solar plexus.

They stood still for a few moments, pressed together and catching their breath. His heart was racing. His gaze traveled to her hands, where she had grabbed a fistful of his collar. There was a slight impression on the ring finger of her left hand.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he gasped, releasing his grip on her arms. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, exactly: for grabbing her roughly, for swearing so loudly, for catching her at such a personal moment.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t know-”

Her eyes were red, cheeks flushed. She let go of his shirt, stepped abruptly back, slipped on a piece of paper, and tripped.

He shot a large hand out and caught her smoothly around the waist, pulling her close to him and away from the edge.

They looked at each other for a wordless moment.

“Your stairs are dangerous,” he grinned, and she relaxed, laughing.

XXXXXXXX

Robin didn’t know how it had happened: one minute she had stormed after Matthew, determined to have the last word, and the next, she had ended up slamming right into Cormoran Strike. A heart-wrenching, stomach-dropping moment when she thought they would both go crashing over the edge of the landing, but he had grabbed her and saved them, just in time. 

And now his arm was around her waist, and they were chuckling as if they both hadn’t just narrowly missed breaking their necks, as if he hadn’t just overheard a mortifying argument between her and her ex-fiance.

The argument had rattled her; the ensuing scuffle on the stairs even more so. She couldn’t decide between bursting into tears or laughter. 

The morning was not going according to plan. Not to mention, if someone had told her last week, that she would be starting her Thursday in the arms of one of London’s most notorious bachelors, she would have laughed in their face. 

As it was, she couldn’t help notice that being this close to said bachelor was annoyingly wonderful; the vague impression that she had previously formed of his strength was currently being definitively confirmed. He had caught her easily, bringing her gracefully back to him as if it were nothing. And he smelled absolutely fantastic. 

He dropped his hand and she stepped carefully back, realizing that the floor was littered with papers.

“The case agreement,” he said, smiling, going down a few steps to gather some of the farther ones.

She reached down and began to pick up the ones on the landing, watching as he made his way unevenly back up towards her.

“Your leg,” she said, remembering how she had felt his balance give for a moment when he pulled them both back.

“It’s nothing,” he said, a cavalier grin on his face that didn’t fool her in the slightest.

“Here, come into my office,” she ordered, thankful for something practical and immediate to focus on.

He followed, limping slightly. 

“Sit,” she said briskly, gesturing to the tiny sofa, and watched as he collapsed his tall frame gratefully onto it. She reached into the tiny freezer of the mini fridge in her kitchen, dumping a tray of ice into a dishcloth and walking back to where he was sitting.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the bag and pressing the cold cloth to his knee. He closed his eyes, and his dark brows drew together as he slowly stretched his leg out straight.

Robin knew how he had lost his lower leg; everyone did. The papers had followed his every move in Afghanistan, constantly reporting the rather surprising news that the legendary playboy happened to be a steady, reliable soldier. She had idly wondered, at the time, why the famous Cormoran Strike had joined the army in the first place. A lark? A rich boy looking for a thrill? A patriotic sense of duty?

An escape?

He opened his eyes, looking up at her, and she blushed, turning towards the kitchen.

 _Whatever the reason, it’s absolutely none of your business,_ she reminded herself.

“Tea?” she asked. “I’ve got Paracetamol upstairs, as well.”

“No need; thank you.”

“I’m so sorry you had to hear that, earlier - I -” 

He shook his head again, his eyes so suddenly full of understanding that she felt tears threatening.

He put the cloth carefully aside. “I’ve interrupted your morning long enough.”

He stood, and the strange intimacy of the morning dissolved back into businesslike familiarity.

“Let me know if I’ve missed anything,” he said, gesturing at the paperwork she had dropped on the desk. 

“Of course. We can start as soon as you like, Monday, if you’re able.”

“Excellent. Feel free to contact me, day or night.”

“I’ll ring your assistant to confirm your schedule?”

He looked at her as if deciding something. 

“Actually, you can just call me directly from now on.”

She nodded, unsure why this felt like crossing a line; she contacted most of her clients this way. Why should having Cormoran Strike’s personal number within reach be any different?

He took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and turned, making his way back to the door. There was still a painful-looking stiffness to his gait, and the sight of it made her call out, unable to stop herself,

“Make sure to take care of that knee!” 

He had already made it to the second step, but he turned and threw her a wide grin over his shoulder. 

“Make sure to watch out for these stairs. See you Monday, Miss Ellacott.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a visit to interview Al at the hospital, Robin continues to see more sides to Strike.

Robin hurried along the street, keeping her eyes on the large frame of St. Thomas’ Hospital ahead of her. She glanced quickly at the delicate watch on her wrist; perfect timing. 

She dodged a group of teenagers gathered in a grumpy, hunched-over bunch, then offered a sympathetic smile at a mother with two young children, wailing at the end of each of her hands. The gray water of the Thames sparkled in the last of the evening light, then disappeared as she rounded the corner and headed towards the front entrance.

In the walkway and front courtyard, patients in gowns and wheelchairs were scattered around, and various hospital staff lounged, smoking or chatting with each other. Cormoran Strike was nowhere to be seen. 

Well. He was bound to be there soon. Robin chose a spot on the other end of a bench from a woman reading a paperback, and settled herself on the seat. She pulled out a slim notebook that she used for cases and began to write down some observations and thoughts from her meeting with another client. 

Five minutes passed, and Robin glanced up, checking for him. She went back to her notes. 

Ten minutes. Robin glanced at her watch, finished writing, then pulled out her mobile and grinned at a text from Ilsa. She double-checked the text with Strike about the meeting time and place, although she already knew it was correct.

Fifteen minutes. It was late in the day as it was, and if he was any later, they’d miss visiting hours entirely. Maybe he had ignored the meeting place and gone straight to the lobby, although instinct told her that Strike was a man who paid attention to detail.

She stood and walked briskly to the front doors, stepping into the lobby and scanning for his dark hair. 

Twenty minutes. She returned to the courtyard, impatience rising.

Twenty-five minutes. He was now just about half an hour late, and she didn’t want to lose any more time. She walked back along the walkway and entered the hospital’s front doors.

At the front desk, the registrar gave her a tired, perfunctory smile.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to visit a patient. Alexander Rokeby.”

The nurse glanced at the clock, frowning. 

“Sorry. Visiting hours are pretty much over. By the time you got to the room, we’d just have to kick you out again.”

A twinge of irritation at Cormoran Strike flashed through her, and Robin looked at the woman with her most understanding expression.  
“I know. I really don’t want to be an inconvenience, and I know how busy you are. My aunt is a nurse; hospital staff work so hard.”

The woman seemed to recognize the genuine empathy in Robin’s tone, and the hard lines of her expression softened slightly. Robin continued, hopeful.

“It’s really important that I see Mr. Rokeby. He’s been expecting me.”

Unmoved, the woman shrugged her shoulders. 

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Dismissing Robin, she stood and turned to the side, stapling a sheaf of papers. 

_Damn._

She couldn’t make it back until next week, and by then she wanted to have an idea of where to start with this case, and that couldn’t happen without seeing Al. She could try- 

“Mr. Strike!” The registrar had looked up, beaming, and Robin didn’t need to turn around to know that her famous client had finally arrived. 

“Lauren,” Strike greeted the nurse as he walked towards the counter, dressed in slim trousers and a blue dress shirt with an expensive blazer, aviator sunglasses hooked on his open collar, and dark hair fashionably rumpled. He was walking slowly, a casual gait that was no doubt meant to appear carefree, but didn't quite disguise the fact that he was limping.

“I’m sure you’re here to see your brother, Mr. Strike, but you know you’re past visiting hours,” said the nurse, in a sing-song, mock scolding tone. 

“I’m rather bad, aren’t I?” he said playfully, and Lauren chuckled. Robin resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“I’ve promised my friend here,” Strike gestured to Robin, “that she could visit him tonight.”

He leaned closer to the desk.

“It really would mean a lot.” 

Lauren wagged her finger at him.

“Oh, Mr. Strike.” She looked around, then giggled. “All right, come with me, then.”

He gave the nurse an easy grin, then turned to Robin, who tried to ignore the treacherous swoop of her stomach as the full wattage of that smile focused on her. They began to follow Lauren down the hall, Strike’s limp becoming even more apparent.

“Apologies for being late, Miss Ellacott.”

“You’re here now, Mr. Strike.”

“I thought we agreed; it’s Cormoran.”

“We did, and it’s Robin.”

“Right. Robin.” Strike looked down at her as they walked. “It suits you.”

She gave him a teasing raise of her eyebrows. “I’m so glad my name meets with your approval.” 

He stopped, and his mouth lifted in a smile she hadn’t seen before; a sort of half-amused, wry smirk of the lips, and it suited him far more than his wide-open, practiced, familiar one. Robin had the sudden sensation that she was seeing a glimpse of the real Cormoran Strike.

He was studying her. 

“Miss Ellacott. Robin. I really am sorry I was late this evening. I was detained by-”

He ran a large hand down his jaw, and Robin saw a small white mark around his ring finger. A jolt went through her. 

Charlotte Campbell. 

Robin remembered the media coverage of their lavish wedding. She and Ilsa had exclaimed over it all, had been squealing in gleeful disbelief over the cost of the flowers alone. 

She also remembered the coverage of their messy and very public divorce, two years later. 

Strike caught her glance, then dropped his hand, his expression rueful. Robin flushed, then said, trying to cover the awkward moment, 

“As I said. We’re here now.”

He nodded, and they stood in the gleaming hospital hallway, looking at each other. 

Lauren came towards them, and the moment, whatever it was, ended. 

“This way, Mr. Strike. I have to use my fob to get you through these doors, here.”

“Right.” Strike gave her his familiar smile and began to walk again. Robin followed in his wake, wondering how this man could make her feel so many different emotions, all at the same time.

*****

“You’ve got thirty minutes, then I’m coming back and hustling you both out of here.” Lauren gave them a last nod and shut the door behind them. 

“It’s me Al,” said Strike, as they rounded the corner into the room.

“Oh, brilliant, I worried maybe you weren’t coming. I thought you said you were going to bring that detective, but I guess-”

Al had caught sight of Robin and faltered, sitting up noticeably straighter. 

“I guess,” he continued, recovering and giving her a smile that reminded Robin strongly of his older brother’s, “that _you’ll_ be much better company than some boring detective.”

He held out a hand. 

“Al Rokeby. The younger, better brother.”

Robin grinned, shaking his outstretched hand. 

“Robin Ellacott. The boring detective in charge of your case.”

Al’s mouth opened. Behind her, Strike uttered a cough that sounded suspiciously like a bark of laughter. 

“It’s all right,” Robin laughed. “I know I’m not what people expect.”

Al closed his mouth and indicated the plush chairs by the window.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-” he was blushing furiously, and Robin took pity on him as Strike pulled the chairs closer to the bed. They sat down.

“Really. Don’t worry about it. I’m here to ask you a few questions, and that will start us on the right track.”

She pulled out her notebook and gave him a soft smile. 

“Just answer with as much detail as you can remember. If you’re feeling tired at any point, we can stop.”

Al nodded gratefully. 

“Right. Go ahead.”

**********

As they stepped out into the brisk air, Robin inhaled deeply, letting out a cloud of frosty air. Strike looked over at her.

“Long day.”

“I’ve definitely had shorter.”

Strike checked his watch. 

“Just about nine. Care to make your day even longer and grab dinner? I’m famished.”

Robin hesitated. She wanted to go back to her flat, a purring Piper, and her pajamas. She wanted a long bath and a glass of wine. It _had_ been a long day, and her brain was a confusing mix of thoughts about the case and the man standing in front of her.

She looked up at him, at that wry half-smile making its appearance again, and nodded. 

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Al is short for Alexander! I looked it up because I wanted to check, (the hospital would be using his full, legal name) and I was surprised! I didn't know that. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A casual dinner invite turns into a surprising evening, in all sorts of ways.

What the hell was he doing?

Strike blamed his rumbling stomach and the earlier encounter with his ex-wife; clearly, he wasn’t making wise decisions. How else to explain him opening his mouth and asking the detective to dinner?

At least Miss Ellacott - Robin - he mentally corrected himself, looked as surprised as he currently felt. His offer had clearly taken them both off-guard.

He wasn’t going to back out now. It wasn’t as if this were one of his usual dates; he was hardly aiming to take her back to his place afterwards, for Christ’s sake. 

An image, unbidden: Robin Ellacott naked on his silk sheets, his tongue dragging a flat, slow path up her centre, her body arching up off the bed into his mouth. He drove the visual sharply away with a grin at her and a smooth, “I know a good place, just up this way,” as he gestured ahead of them.

They walked along the busy streets in silence. He supposed she was thinking over the case, and what Al had said in the hospital room. 

“Yes, I’m thinking over the interview with Al,” she said, looking over at him with a slight, professional smile.

He grinned. 

“You are good.”

She nodded, and he put his hand gently out, indicating the lineup of people on the pavement. The brass decorated door to Alouette, a trendy and popular French restaurant, could be seen in the distance. 

Robin looked at him. 

“You must be joking. I’ve been trying to get reservations here for months. They’re impossible - booked solid until next year.”

“Not if you’re me.”

She gave him an incredulous look, and he grinned again, walking past the queue to the door. He opened it for her, and she walked in. People were lined up in the tiny, arched little hall that opened up to the dining room behind it, and crowded around the plush benches. High ceilings and glass mirrors; subtle music and low candlelight flickering on the gleaming black-painted walls. 

The host looked up, and seeing Strike, smiled.

“Mr. Strike! What a pleasure! Shall I ready your table for...”

“Two, please,” he said, looking at Robin’s face, which, normally hard to read, wore a clearly panicked expression. 

“Okay, this is strange timing,” she said, fixing her gaze back on his, “but two of my best friends are sitting there, and they’ve spotted me. I’m going to try and go over there, head them off-”

“Your friends-?”

Robin had already turned, her smile fixed in the direction over his shoulder, when she turned rapidly back again. 

“Oh lord, they’re coming this way, I’m sorry-”

“It’s fine,” grinned Strike, trying not to find her flustered smile adorable. 

“Rob!” A blonde woman in glasses, about Strike’s own age, came forward with a delighted face, embracing Robin. A man, also wearing glasses, swiftly followed with another hug. Meanwhile, the blonde woman’s eyes swept Strike from top to bottom. 

He held out his hand as Robin said, “Ilsa, Nick, this is-”

“We know who you are,” said Ilsa, smiling and taking Strike’s hand. “Cormoran Strike.”

“Guilty.”

Ilsa’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses, and as they shook hands, he quickly flipped her wrist in his and brought the back of it to his lips for a quick kiss. 

“Oh,” she breathed, and Strike grinned, catching the man, Nick, rolling his eyes and holding out his hand, frowning slightly. 

“Nick. Her husband.”

“Make that a table for four,” said Strike to the host, who had been watching with interest. 

“Oh, we don’t want to trouble you,” began Nick, at the same time that Robin said, “I’m not sure that would-”

“It’ll clear up a table for someone else,” said Strike firmly, which settled the matter. A waitress came by, gesturing to the group. 

“Mr. Strike? This way.”

They followed her through the lush dining room, past couples and small groups, the clink of silverware mixing with laughter. Strike tried sneaking a glance at Robin’s face beside him, but she caught him out, turning and looking at him. He chuckled.

“You don’t miss anything, do you, detective?”

She smiled. 

“Not much. Including that hundred pound note you slipped the waitress.” 

He gave a brief nod. 

“I like things to go smoothly.”

“I can’t imagine a different outcome, in your case.” Her eyes searched his in the low light. “Hospital staff bending the rules, tables waiting for you at the hottest restaurants; it must be quite the way to move through the world.”

It wasn’t censure, exactly, but something in her tone bothered him. 

“Money is not a flaw, Miss Ellacott.”

She scoffed. 

“What a refreshing point of view.”

The waitress stopped at a small table in an inviting, shadowy corner, and Nick was holding his chair for Ilsa. Strike did the same for Robin, his mouth set in a tense line, then seated himself. Nick and Ilsa were chatting away to each other, and Robin leaned in closer to him. He caught the slight scent of roses.

“Money is not a flaw, but abusing influence is.”

He stared at her. 

“Is that what you think I do? Abuse my influence?”

She shook her head, wrinkling her nose. 

“No! No. I just-” She started again. “It’s just strange to see how the other side lives.” She looked up, studying him. 

He expected another biting comment, but she only said, with genuine warmth,

“Thank you for including Nick and Ilsa.”

He was beginning to lose track of how many times she was surprising him, at how many times they seemed to go from complete understanding to complete mystery, then back again. 

A waiter came up to them, smiling. 

“May I start you off with a little something? A drink, or an appetizer, perhaps? Our chef is in house tonight, and is renowned for his interpretation of Salmon Rillettes, or might I suggest-”

“A drink,” stated Robin and Strike, at the same time. 

They looked at each other. Nick and Ilsa looked at them. The waiter looked at Nick and Ilsa, then recovered. 

“May I recommend champagne? We have the best menu in London, and we offer our guests the sabrage experience itself.”

Robin’s brows drew together as she exchanged a look with Ilsa.

“The sabrage-?”

Strike nodded at the waiter. “Yes please. We’ll have a bottle of the Roederer Cristal Brut.”

The waiter nodded, leaving, and Strike grinned at Robin. 

“I’m volunteering you for the sabrage, by the way.” 

She bit her lip.

“Why do I have the feeling I’ve agreed to something more than popping a cork?”

Nick leaned across the table. 

“Have you never sabered a bottle of champagne, Rob? It’s great fun.”

“I don’t rightly know - have I?”

Nick grinned. 

“If you had, you’d remember.”

Robin’s eyes widened. 

“What exactly-”

The waiter returned with the gold bottle and a long, slim scabbard, from which he pulled a shining silver blade, with a flourish, and began to recite.

“The saber was Napoleon’s weapon of choice, and his cavalry’s. His armies would open bottles of champagne during parties on the eve of battle. Napoleon is credited with saying, "Champagne! In victory one deserves it; in defeat one needs it." The emperor was famously superstitious; he believed that if the bottle is sabered cleanly, then he would be victorious. A shattered bottle meant defeat. It is still held to this day, that a successful sabering brings victory and luck.”

The waiter bowed, holding out the blade.

“Which of Mr. Strike’s party will be doing the honours, tonight?”

“She will!” squealed Ilsa gleefully, pointing at Robin, whose eyebrows shot up. 

“I don’t think-”

“It is not dangerous, miss.” The waiter nodded encouragingly. 

Robin looked around the table, then stood up. 

“All right. I’m game.”

“Attagirl!” exclaimed Nick, and Ilsa clapped her hands as Robin stood and walked over to the waiter. 

“Nothing to worry about, the bottles are made to be sabered; it is still considered the correct way to open them. You just want to stroke the blunt edge of the blade upwards to the mouth of the bottle, and it will break clean.”

Robin nodded, but Strike noticed her hands were shaking as she took the bottle and the saber’s handle. He stood, then came and stood beside her. 

“He’s right, there’s no danger,” he said, low and quiet. “But I’ll do it with you, if you like.”

She looked up at him, assessing, then nodded.

“Actually, I think I would like that, if you’re offering.”

Strike positioned himself behind her, his arms coming gently around her, taking her hands lightly in his. Rose petals and a hint of jasmine lingered as he bent his head close, and he couldn’t help but register the softness of her fingers as he adjusted her grip on the blade’s handle. She was surrendering control to him, her hands and arms light in his hold as lifted the champagne bottle out in front of them.

“Let’s move our hands down,” he said, close to her ear, and thought he might have felt her shiver. 

He moved her fingers away from the bottle’s neck. Then, holding it steady in their hands, he brought the dull edge of the sword in a slow motion sweep up to the lip of the bottle, scraping against the glass. 

“Upward stroke. Like this.”

She nodded, and he could sense her chest rise and fall with a deep breath. 

“We’ll go two slow scrapes and then it’s a quick upward stroke on three, all right?” 

She nodded again, and he felt her settle a little more into his arms. He could feel her back right against his chest, now. 

“One,” 

His hands guided hers, moving the blade up to the lip of the bottle and slowly back down.

“Two,”

Another stroke, and he felt her take another breath. 

“Three.”

He didn’t have to guide her; Robin’s hand flew up with steady pressure, and with a _pop_ , the top of the bottle shot clean off, flying a few feet forward to the carpeted floor. 

Nick and Ilsa cheered, and Robin held up the foaming bottle, laughing in delight. Champagne was bubbling over Strike’s hands on Robin’s, and he stepped away from her, taking the proffered flutes from the waiter and holding them towards foaming liquid. 

“Oh, right!” Robin laughed, pouring the bottle and filling each of their glasses. 

They sat down, still laughing, and the waiter placed the corked bottle top in front of Robin with a smile. 

“I’ll give you a few moments with the menu.”

““Good luck and victory, wasn’t it?” said Ilsa, holding out her glass.

“Cheers,” said Strike, lifting his own, and Nick’s answering wink across the table was almost as satisfying as the brilliant smile that Robin gave him as they clinked her glass against his, holding his eyes as they each took a sip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Strike to be a little first-date impressive, without realizing that he's doing exactly that - impress his date. :D

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I have NO idea whether you fine folks will like this or not. It's a bit out there. The idea came to me while reading another fic (Lula's wonderful, "Enough! I Heard Enough.") I thought it would be fun to turn the tables and have Robin and Strike switch roles. I have enough to keep going (and finish!) but we'll see what you think. 
> 
> (Also: yes, if Strike isn't estranged from Rokeby, why is his last name still Strike? It shall be explained! ^-^)


End file.
